


Slow Fuses Burn the Hottest

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Phil Coulson, Gift Fic, Insecure Clint, M/M, Made For Each Other, Mutual Pining, little bit of sexist language, not from the good guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being unmated at 38 is rare enough, but Clint has never even had a heat. There's no explanation Medical can offer him. His body's in perfect working order, and he has an active imagination, and a healthy sex drive.</p>
<p>There's just no one he's compatible enough with to trigger a heat.</p>
<p>Nobody wants him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Fuses Burn the Hottest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infiniteeight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/gifts).



> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> For Fin, for her birthday, and because she's awesome. I figured that, since her A/B/O fic was the first I ever read, the first A/B/O fic I ever wrote should be for her. *g* Hope you like it, Fin! Sorry it's a little late -- it kept growing on me!
> 
> Thank you so much to Lady Tian and AlyKat, who not only cheered me on and kept me going when I panicked, but also made suggestions and offered opinions until the somewhat vague outline I had finally coalesced into an actual story. You guys are the best. *mwah*

 

"Jamison, do you have the shot?"

There is a pause, and Clint glances toward where he knows the other nest is.

"Negative, I do not have the shot. Hold, switching positions."

Another pause, which lengthens, and with every second, they are in danger of the target escaping their grasp. Clint is just about to open his mouth to respond when Jamison comes back.

"Negative. I do not have the shot. Repeat, I do not have the shot."

Coulson's disappointment practically radiates down the comm line as he says, "All right -- "

"I've got the shot, sir," Clint interrupts.

"Bullshit!" Jamison snarls. "You can't possibly have that shot from the backup nest unless you switched positions without approval."

Clint ignores him. "Repeat. I have the shot."

"Barton, take it on my mark," Coulson orders. "Jamison, you're cleared for exfil."

"Fucking bullshit," Jamison mutters again.

"Keep the chatter off the comms," Coulson snaps. "Barton, take the shot."

Clint does, and then humps it to the extraction site while the SHIELD cleanup and intel gathering teams move in. He is just putting his gear into the nondescript van with Woo at the wheel when Jamison arrives. He tosses his gear carelessly into the van and climbs in, slamming Clint into the edge of the door.

Clint holds back his grunt of pain -- Jamison's not the first asshole alpha to push him around, and Clint's sure he won't be the last.

Jamison glares daggers at him the entire ride back to base, and Clint ignores him, checking and rechecking his equipment, and composing his report in his head.

The alpha pheromones are rolling off Jamison, practically visible to the naked eye, and when they return to the small local SHIELD base, Coulson briefly catches Clint's eye. Anyone but Coulson would be rolling their eyes, and Clint hides his smile by glancing down at his equipment as he unloads it.

"Good shot, Barton," Coulson says, and Clint nods his thanks. Coulson turns to Woo and adds, "Nice job with the extraction, Agent Woo."

"Thanks, sir."

"Let's get the gear stored, and the night is yours. Extraction to HQ in twenty hours," Coulson tells them all, and Jamison stiffens at not being directly addressed by Coulson, though Clint doesn't know what Jamison expects to be complimented on, given that his sole contribution to the op was some swearing on the comms.

"Debrief, sir?" Woo asks, and Coulson shakes his head.

"Hill will debrief back at HQ. Dismissed."

With a nod at Coulson and Woo, Clint shoulders his bag and picks up his bow case, heading toward the armory to police his gear on his way to the bunk.

There's heavy footsteps behind him and Clint tenses but keeps walking.

"You're a fucking liar, you know that, Barton?"

Clenching his hands around the strap of his gear bag and the handle of his bow case, Clint ignores Jamison.

"Hey! Asshole! I'm talking to you."

Clint bites back a sigh, and says without turning, "I'm just trying to put my stuff away, Jamison. If you've got a problem with the op, take it up with Coulson."

"You could not have made that fucking shot from where you were."

Clint is used to people insulting his gender, his stature, his lack of formal education, his looks, whatever. But he will never be okay with assholes insulting his work. He turns slowly, setting down his gear.

"Well, clearly, I did. Since the target is down. Something you couldn't manage. And the only thing that moved was my trigger finger."

"Stop lying, asshole," Jamison hisses. "You couldn't have done that from where you were. You had to have moved, and I'm not going to leave until you fucking admit it."

Jamison is a foot taller than Clint and has about fifty pounds on him. Furious, he looms over Clint, using a meaty hand to shove him back against the wall. Clint shudders at the idea of an alpha Jamison's size holding him down and rutting him, and he's never been so glad not to have to deal with the mindless heats omegas are known for.

"I would not have changed positions mid-op without informing command," Clint tells him calmly, raising his chin in defiance. He wants to sidestep to get away from being caged in by Jamison, but his gear is on either side of him, and he's not about to leap over it to give this asshole the satisfaction of watching him run.

"You climbed the fucking antenna, didn't you. Circus freak."

"I may be a circus freak, but I'm the one who took the shot while you sat there with your thumb in your ass. And I didn't need to climb an antenna to do it."

"You did this all on purpose, you chose that nest on purpose. To humiliate me."

"Okay, A, I didn’t even know you were going to _be_ on this op until you bullied your way in. I chose that nest during mission planning because I knew that _I_ could make the shot from there. And B, Coulson and I both offered to refigure things and change the position of the main nest when you were assigned to the team, and you refused. So it's not my fault you can't do your fucking job."

"I didn't bully my way in -- Commander Hill _assigned_ me! This op was my chance at a promotion, and you fucked it up for me, Barton. Don't think I'm going to forget that." Jamison drills a finger into Clint's chest, and Clint resists the urge to break it. He's not going to let this asshole goad him into a write-up.

"I didn't need to fuck anything up for you, Jamison," he says, keeping his tone of voice flat. Bored, even. "You did that all on your own."

"Who the fuck do you think you are, little omega bitch, showing your betters up."

"I think that I'm a better sniper than you, omega or not," Clint says calmly, though he's seething.

"Yeah, well, that's because it's the only thing you're fucking good for, isn't it? Broken, useless toy that you are. It's all you have because nobody fucking wants you, do they!"

"Listen, you asshole -- "

"What is going on here?" Coulson's voice is calm and sure, threaded with the steel of command. Even when he's boiling with anger, it makes something in Clint shiver. 

Jamison straightens up so he's not in Clint's face, but he doesn't step back until Coulson walks right up to them. Coulson's gaze slides from Clint to Jamison and back again, and Clint can see the banked anger when he looks at Jamison, and the concern in his eyes when he glances at Clint.

"Just a difference of opinion, sir," he says easily, trying to be reassuring, but Coulson frowns, subtly turning so that he's facing Jamison and standing slightly in front of Clint, and Clint knows Coulson heard the tightness in his voice. He wants to be annoyed that Coulson's trying to shield him, but part of him is thrilled to bring out that protective urge in the other man.

Jamison crosses his arms defensively. "We're just having a conversation. _Sir._ "

Clint leans down to grab his bow case. "Yeah, this conversation's done. It was done before it started."

Jamison steps on the strap of Clint's gear bag before Clint can pick it up.

"Yeah, no, I don't think it is."

Clint straightens, staring Jamison in the eye, and he doesn't give one good god damn that he has to look a foot up to do it. "Move your foot before I break your knee."

"I'd like to see you try." Jamison steps forward, his chest thudding into Coulson's shoulder, knocking him back into Clint.

Coulson shoves him back a foot, his hand firm on Clint's shoulder to keep him from leaping after the posturing alpha.

"Agent Barton asked you to leave, Jamison," Coulson says flatly. "You need to leave."

Coulson is no taller than Clint, small for an alpha, which Clint knows provides its own set of challenges. But even though Jamison is towering over him the way he towered over Clint, Coulson sets his jaw and stares Jamison in the eyes, not backing down an inch. His hand is still on Clint's shoulder, and it burns like a brand.

"You're real brave with a superior officer standing in front of you, aren't you, Barton?" Jamison snarls.

"I believe you've been dismissed, Agent Jamison," Coulson snaps out, and there is no challenge in his words, only quiet certainty. Small though he may be, _he_ is the dominant alpha here, and he doesn't need size, pheromones, or yelling to prove it. "Your behavior, both during this op and after, has been amateurish, unprofessional, and unacceptable. You're on report, and I suggest you leave now before you make things worse for yourself by physically assaulting a fellow agent or a superior."

Jamison gapes at him. "I'm on _report?_ For what? Swearing? What is this, preschool? This is fucking _bullshit_ Coulson, everyone knows Barton's your pet. As much as he can be, since he's broken. He's only gotten this far in SHIELD because you let him lie and you make excuses for him. He doesn't belong here with the rest of us."

"Agent Barton is a consummate professional, whose presence in the top echelon of this organization needs no explanation. I am not sure, however, what _you_ are still doing in SHIELD, and I'm getting less sure every second."

Jamison snorts. "I could say the same about you. Look at you, old man, you're nothing but a runt."

"Hey!" Clint snaps, but Coulson's hand tightens briefly on his shoulder, stilling him.

"Maybe it's time for some new blood at the top."

Phil lets go of Clint, squaring his shoulders as he faces Jamison.

"Are you seriously challenging me, pup? Here?" Coulson's voice holds incredulity and the slightest hint of menace, and Clint licks his lips, shocked into silence by Jamison's unbelievable stupidity. Coulson is standing in front of him, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, his shoulders impossibly wide in the jacket of his suit, and Clint is more turned on than he thinks he's ever been in his life.

"Not much of a challenge for me, really," Jamison says with a smirk as he looks Coulson up and down.

With a snarl, he launches himself at Coulson, knocking him back into Clint. The momentum pushes Clint back, his head smacking hard into the wall, and he's momentarily stunned. When he blinks the bright spots away, Coulson is blocking Jamison's flying elbow with a forearm, sweeping a leg to take the larger man down.

Jamison falls back, fingers scrabbling at Coulson and yanking him down by his tie. They land with a thud, and Jamison rolls to put the smaller man under him, but Coulson headbutts him in the nose and wraps a leg around Jamison's, slamming a forearm into Jamison's solar plexus, and making the man gasp for air. He shoves up, using the momentum to roll them again, until he's kneeling on Jamison's chest, one hand gripping Jamison's dominant wrist, the other wrapped around the younger man's throat.

He squeezes with both hands, and Jamison gives a choked cry, bucking uselessly against Coulson's hold.

"You're suspended," Coulson tells him, and he's not even breathing hard. He rises gracefully to his feet, leaving Jamison sprawled and gasping on the ground. "Get the hell out of my sight."

He turns his back on Jamison and steps toward Clint, who is leaning against the wall and shaking, fingertips pressed into the plaster, completely breathless from Coulson's display of dominance.

"You all right?" Coulson asks gently. Behind him, Jamison rolls to his hands and knees with a groan, and then staggers to his feet, stumbling down the corridor. If he had a tail, it'd be tucked tightly between his legs. Coulson doesn't even look back.

"Am _I_ all right? Jesus, sir…"

Coulson is flushed with triumph, his eyes bright, and there is the beginning of a bruise on his cheekbone. Clint wonders how Coulson would take it if Clint pushed him against the opposite wall and offered a victory blow job.

"You're trembling."

_That was the hottest thing I've ever seen, damn right I'm shaking,_ Clint thinks, but he shakes his head and clears his throat. "Yeah, hit my head, just got my bell rung a little. I'm fine," he adds when Coulson frowns in concern, fingertips gently grasping Clint's chin to lift it so he can look in Clint's eyes. 

He's too close. Far too close. Coulson's consideration is the last thing Clint needs right now when he's so unsettled. Propositioning Coulson in the corridor is not going to go well for anyone. He looks away, gently pulling out of Coulson's grasp as he bends to pick up his bow case and his gear bag. "I'm, uh, gonna go put my stuff away and get some sleep. Really, I'm fine sir. That was, um, impressive, by the way."

"Stupid pup," Coulson says, rolling his eyes. "Not the first I've ever put on the ground, and probably not the last."

He sighs and frowns down at his ruined tie. "Looks like I've got some disciplinary paperwork to write up. Are you sure you're okay, Barton?"

Clint nods. "I'm fine, sir. Good night."

"Good night." Coulson glances away and then looks back. "You'll call me if you need anything? If you're disoriented, maybe we should -- "

"I'm fine, Mom!" Clint says with a laugh, pushing down how good it feels to have someone care about him, care if he's all right. "Go throw the book at that asshole."

Coulson smirks, and walks away. Clint watches him go, the slight swagger of unconquered authority in his stride, his suit barely rumpled from the fight, and he yearns for something he knows will never be his.

Shaking his head at his idiot self, he gathers his stuff and heads for the armory.

He's quiet as he puts his gear away and heads for the quarters he's been assigned for the night. The adrenalin of the confrontation with Jamison is wearing off, and he has a headache. He feels a little weird, like his skin is too tight, and he really wants a shower.

He tries to focus on the way Jamison looked sprawled on the ground, defeated and subdued, rather than dwelling on the man's words.

"He's an idiot," he tells himself as he sorts his gear in his quarters. "Don't pay attention to a goddamn word he fucking said."

But that's not so easy to do, not when some of them are true.

_Useless. Nobody wants you._

He leans his head against the cool tile of the shower wall, letting the hot water beat the aches and pains out of him. He's heard those words his whole life, and he can laugh them off, through long practice, pretend they don't pierce him like shards of glass.

_Broken._

Being unmated at 38 is rare enough, but Clint has never even had a heat. There's no explanation Medical can offer him, and SHIELD has some of the finest minds in medical science working for it. His body's in perfect working order, and he has an active imagination, and a healthy sex drive.

There's just no one he's compatible enough with to trigger a heat.

Nobody wants him.

Towelling off, he throws on a pair of gym shorts and a SHIELD t-shirt and stands in the middle of his tiny quarters, stretching. He feels kind of achy, kind of restless, and he doesn't know whether he wants to find the base gym and beat the shit out of a punching bag or crawl into bed and sleep for a week. His stomach growls, and he briefly considers raiding the cafeteria -- if this base even has one. It might just be vending machines at the end of the hall.

He doesn't want to run into anybody while he's looking for the gym or the cafeteria, not when he's feeling like this. He downs a couple of protein bars and the bottle of Gatorade in his pack and then brushes his teeth again, trying not to look in the mirror as he does so.

Setting the alarm on his phone, he leaves it on the bedside table and turns out the lights. His body is used to resting whenever it gets the opportunity, and he's asleep in minutes.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Clint groans as he wakes up, kicking off the blankets.

It's still the middle of the night -- he can tell he only slept for a few hours, but he feels… weird. His brain is foggy, and he's hot and achy, and it feels like ants are crawling under his skin. He needs… he doesn't know what he needs.

He's had the flu, and half a dozen different kinds of food poisoning -- and he's been intentionally poisoned a couple of times -- and this isn't any of that.

A deep, body-wracking shiver rolls through him, and he groans, trying to curl in a ball. He gasps when the fabric of the t-shirt he's wearing brushes against his nipples. It feels like sandpaper. They are peaked, and more sensitive than they've ever been.

He's hard, he realizes belatedly. His cock feels heavy enough, solid enough, to hammer nails with. He shifts, moaning as it rubs against his shorts. He shifts again, lost in the feeling of it, delicious torture, and it feels like he's soaked -- with sweat, precome, slick. Maybe all three.

"Must have been a hell of a sex dream," he croaks, his throat dry, and he's a little mad he doesn't remember it.

Another shiver rolls through him, his stomach clenching, hands grasping at nothing, and he grits his teeth but a whimper escapes his lips anyway.

He wants to get up and he wants to lie down and he wants to roll over and writhe against the sheets until he comes, but that's not enough, he knows it wouldn't be enough.

He feels empty. He needs… he needs…

His phone is in his shaking hand and ringing before he realizes it.

"Coulson."

Coulson's voice is perfectly alert, even in the middle of the night, and the sound of it is enough to send another shiver through Clint. He whines, low in his throat, and he can hear the sound of shifting fabric over the line.

"Barton?"

Coulson sounds alarmed now, and Clint can picture him sitting up in bed, hair mussed, sleep shirt tight across his chest, and Clint gasps, free hand drifting down to palm his cock through his shorts.

"Barton? Report!"

"You… you told me to call if I needed… oh, _God_ ," he moans, and he should be embarrassed about calling Coulson this way, right _now_ , when he's feeling like this, but all he can think about is how empty he feels, how much he wants, how much he _needs_.

"Are you injured? Barton? Clint! Answer me!"

" _Please_ , sir…" is all he can gasp out.

"I'm on my way."

"Coulson? Phil?" Clint whimpers into the silence, and he realizes Coulson's hung up, and he whines at being left alone in the dark.

_Nobody wants you_ , part of him says viciously.

"No," he gasps. "No, he said he was on his way. He's coming here. It'll be fine. It'll be okay, Coulson's coming, and he'll know what to do..."

The phone falls from his fingers as he curls into a ball and shakes.

He drifts, lost in sensation and need, and time passes. Could be seconds, could be hours, and then there's a sharp rap on his door. He jumps in surprise, gasping as his over-sensitive skin brushes against his clothes and sheets.

"Barton?" Coulson's voice is quiet, but firm, and Clint whimpers at the sound of it. "Barton, can you hear me? Open the door, or at least just tell me you're okay."

Clint forces himself to uncurl and roll off the bed, nearly falling, all of his usual grace gone. He staggers the few steps to the door, fumbling the doorknob with sweat-slick hands until he gets it to open.

Phil is on the other side, looking worried. Then, his eyes widen, his nostrils flaring, and he falls back half a step, staring at Clint. He glances one way down the corridor, and then the other.

Like Clint, Phil is in a SHIELD t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, bare feet shoved into his gym shoes, and that would normally be enough to get Clint's heart rate up, but he's too distracted by the way Phil smells. He smells _so good._ He usually smells good, but right now, his scent is deeper, richer, muskier, and it takes everything Clint has to grip the door in one hand and the frame in the other and not reach for him, bury his face in Phil's neck and just breathe him in. The frantic need that's been coursing through him since he woke up is muted now, pulsing slowly in his veins instead of feeling like ants in his blood. He breathes in a deep lungful of Phil's scent and lets it calm him.

"You should not be out here," Phil says, and he steps forward, gently grasping Clint's wrist and loosening his white knuckled grip on the door frame. Clint whimpers at the touch, grabbing Phil's hand in lieu of the doorjamb. "Come on, let's get you inside."

"Fuck, sir, you smell so good," Clint tells him, resisting the urge to just curl up in Coulson's arms. He tears himself away from Coulson and paces away, but his quarters are too small, and now all they smell like is Coulson. He wraps his arms tightly around himself, whimpering when his shirt brushes against his over-sensitive nipples again. He scrubs his palms over his face. "Jesus, sir, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -- I don't know what's wrong with me, I feel so weird."

"You're in heat, Clint," Coulson says gently, and Clint jerks his head out of his hands to stare at him.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, I don't… I don't have heats."

"Trust me," Coulson says with an uneasy laugh. "You are definitely in heat."

Clint shakes his head again, trying to focus this time, trying to concentrate enough to study Coulson. He is pressed back against the now closed door, and he is flushed. His eyes are dark and hungry, and his nostrils keep flaring every time Clint moves enough to stir the air in the room. His sweatpants are loose, but not loose enough to hide his arousal, and Clint thinks distractedly, _I did that to him. I'm doing that to him._

A needy whine tears itself out of his throat, and his legs go weak. Coulson flinches minutely at the sound.

"I should go," he says roughly. "I shouldn't be here, not right now."

"What?"

"Is there someone you want me to call?"

"You… you're leaving?" Clint's legs give out and he drops on the bed, staring at Coulson.

Coulson takes a deep breath and then closes his eyes tightly, letting it back out. His hands are clenched at his sides.

"I'm not what you need right now," Coulson says, his voice tight, like he's trying to remain calm. "Do you know -- can you think what might have triggered your heat?"

Clint laughs, aware that it sounds a little hysterical. He shoves himself off the bed, stalking on unsteady legs toward Coulson. "Not what I need, he says. Do I know what might have triggered this? Jesus, Coulson, how 'bout the first person who ever trusted me, the only man _I've_ ever completely trusted having my back against a fucking over-aggressive knothead? How bout him defending me personally and professionally while still trusting me to take care of myself? How 'bout him taking down a fucking challenger before I could _blink_ and then turning to ask me if I was okay? How bout the fucking fact that you _came over here without getting dressed_ to see if I was okay when I called? Do you think any of that might have done it?"

Coulson is staring at him, wide-eyed and speechless. They are so close now, close enough for him to see the fine beads of sweat on Coulson's brow, the hints of the freckles that appear whenever Coulson spends a lot of time in the sun. He should back up, he knows, give the man some space, but Coulson's scent is overwhelming, and he wants to drown himself in it. The need is crawling hungrily under his skin again, and he shivers with it.

"Please," he whispers, closing his eyes and trembling with emotion. He clenches his fists to keep from digging his hands into Coulson's shoulders and shaking the man. "Please, Coulson, I have tried everything, I have read _everything_ , textbooks, self-help books, fucking _Cosmo_ , I've done everything they've told me to. One-night stands, dating, long term relationships that lead to sex, platonic friendships that grow into relationships, quickies in bar bathrooms, I've been in close quarters with every fucking agent and handler SHIELD has, it feels like, even with _you_ before, and nothing has ever worked until now. Until today. Please, if you want me at all, please don't leave me like this."

He sobs with relief as Coulson's arms close around him, one hand gently cupping his head and guiding it to rest on Coulson's shoulder, pulling him close.

"Okay," Coulson says gently. "Okay, Clint, if you're _sure_ that this is what you want, that I am what you want -- "

"I do! Please, I want this! Want you, so much, sir, please -- "

"You need to stop calling me 'Coulson' and 'sir' if we're going to do this," he says sharply, a note of dominance in his voice, and Clint whines and shudders in his arms.

"Sorry," he says. "Sorry, si -- I don't… what should I call you? Alpha? Sorry, Alpha. I'm sorry... Just tell me, please, I want…" _I want to be perfect for you_ , Clint thinks, but he bites his tongue before he can blurt it out, shivering with need.

"Phil," he says, one hand rubbing Clint's back. It's probably supposed to be soothing, but all it's doing is feeding the fire in Clint's veins. "Phil is fine."

He noses at Clint's cheek, breathing deep, his chest brushing Clint's and making Clint gasp and cry out at the sensation, and when he does, Coulson -- _Phil!_ he thinks desperately -- catches his mouth in a fierce kiss.

Clint keens and melts into the kiss, mouth opening under Phil's as Phil's tongue sweeps in to taste him, claim his mouth. He's rocking against Phil, need spiraling low and deep within him, and Phil shifts slightly, hands burning like a brand at Clint's waist, through the thin t-shirt already soaked with sweat. His thigh slips between Clint's legs, firm muscle for Clint to rock against, his hands sliding to grip Clint's ass tightly, and Clint gasps.

So good, it feels _so good_ , but it's not enough, and he wants to scream with frustration.

He tears his mouth away from Phil's, tucking his forehead against Phil's shoulder again and breathing in great, gasping lungfuls of Phil's scent, even as he rocks desperately against Phil's thigh.

"More," he moans. "God, I need more, I need you, Phil. _Please..._ "

"Yes," Phil hisses, nipping at Clint's jawline, making Clint clutch at his shoulders and toss his head back to give Phil better access. He loses himself in the sensation of Phil's mouth on his feverish skin, writhing against Phil and moaning his name. The backs of Clint's legs bump against his bed, and he has no idea how they got here, or where his shirt went, but he doesn't care. He scrambles onto the bed, sprawling out and staring up at Phil.

"Look at you," Phil growls, idly reaching one hand down to palm his cock, and Clint licks his lips. "So gorgeous, you're going to be such a good omega for me, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, so good, I'll be so good," Clint says breathlessly, and then he flinches. Fucked up, the one thing Phil asked, and he's already fucked it all up. "Phil, sorry, _Phil_. I'm sorry -- "

"Shhh," Phil says as he quickly strips his shirt off and climbs onto the bed, blanketing Clint's body with his. Clint arches up into him, baring his throat to Phil's lips, but Phil kisses him softly instead, and strokes his cheek. "It's okay, Clint, it's new, I know it's new, and it's hard for you to concentrate right now. I'm not angry, I'll never be angry at you, not when we're like this." He presses a kiss to Clint's cheek, and it's so gentle that Clint wants to cry. "I just want to make this good for you, I'm going to take such good care of you, my beautiful omega."

"Yes, please," Clint tells him through the wave of longing and need crashing over him. "Yes, please, I want to be your omega, make me yours, please."

Phil kisses his way down Clint's chest, his hot mouth closing over a nipple, fingers gently stroking at the other, and Clint shudders and cries out.

"Fuck!" he gasps. "Oh my God, please, Phil, _please!_ "

Phil's kisses trail down his quivering abs, and he nips a teasing bite into the skin just above the waistband of Clint's shorts. He eases them down, and the air of the room is cool against Clint's over-sensitive skin. His ass and thighs are covered with slick, and Phil hums approvingly, fingers sliding through it and then stroking them up the length of Clint's hard cock.

"So wet for me," he murmurs as he slides the shorts down Clint's legs and tosses them aside. "So ready."

"Yes, God, please, Phil. I've never been this hard or this wet, not for anyone. Only for you," Clint tells him, flipping onto his belly. He lowers his forehead to the cool sheets and raises his ass, spreading his knees wide and presenting himself to his alpha. His ass feels slick and hot and so, so ready.

"Jesus fuck, Clint," Phil growls. He grasps Clint's ass, spreading him open further, thumbs sliding through the slickness and playing at the edge of Clint's hole, and Clint sobs and pushes back into the touch. 

Phil slips two fingers into his hole, stretching him, and it feels so good, and so _right_ , but it's not enough.

"Please," he says through clenched teeth. "Please, Phil, I'm ready, I need more, I need _you_ , God, I don't think I can wait any more."

Phil runs a calming hand down his back, and the bed dips as he climbs on. Blanketing Clint's back, he presses a kiss to the back of Clint's neck. Clint can feel Phil's cock, hot and hard and perfect, sliding in the slick crease of Clint's ass, and he whines and pushes back against it.

Phil groans. "You don't have to wait anymore, I'm going to give you everything you need, Clint," he says, thrusting his cock so that the head of it catches on Clint's hole. "It's going to be so good for both of us, I promise you."

He shifts his hips, and the thick head of his cock is suddenly pressing firmly against Clint's hole, sliding easily against Clint's wet skin, steadily opening Clint up, and he doesn't stop until his hips are flush against Clint's ass. Clint moans, rocking back against Phil, hole clenching around the heat of Phil's cock. He feels full and stretched and _claimed_ , and he's never felt like this before.

With no warning, Phil eases back and then thrusts forward, burying himself deeply in Clint's body once more before setting a demanding rhythm. Clint cries out, fingers twisting in the sheets as he widens his stance further, arching his back to take Phil's steady thrusts. Phil's hands are firm on his hips, his cock hot and thick and perfect within Clint, and the restless fire in Clint's veins eases into heavy throbbing pleasure, sparks of sensation jolting through him with each thrust. He cries out as Phil pounds him roughly, sobbing his pleasure into air thick with Phil's scent.

Phil's knot is growing, catching on the rim of Clint's hole now with each thrust, and Clint's breath hitches with the sensation.

"Please," he moans. "Yes! Oh, God, Phil, you feel so fucking good, _please!_ "

"You want my knot?" Phil demands, grunting the words with every thrust. "Want me to tie you, fill you completely? You going to be my perfect omega and take all of me?"

"God, yes, want all of you! Please -- "

He cries out as Phil grips his hips tighter, slamming into him harder as his swelling knot pops in and out of Clint, stretching him until he's writhing with the sensation, a silver flare of burning heat sparkling through the pleasure. Finally, it's too big for that and Phil grinds against him, his knot pressing against the rim of Clint's hole with incredible pressure. Clint moans and shoves back against it, desperate to take it, to take all of Phil, to be his omega fully and completely.

Phil groans and gives one last mighty thrust, fingers sliding around Clint's hip to wrap around his aching cock as his knot slips into Clint. The pleasure and fullness of it, of being filled so completely in a way he's never been, the sudden, constant pressure on his prostate and Phil's slick fingers sliding against his cock all overwhelm him, and he's coming, screaming his pleasure into the sheets.

Rocking against him, Phil fucks him through it, gasping with pleasure as Clint's climax triggers his own. He grinds his hips in a circle, short thrusts not doing much more than shifting the unbelievable girth of his knot within Clint, and the sensation is overpowering and enormous. Clint sobs and shivers, shuddering and limp in Phil's grasp as his cock jerks weakly with aftershocks.

He goes unresistingly as Phil gathers him in his arms and shifts them onto their sides.

He's holding Clint close to his chest, pressing kisses to his neck and shoulders and as much of his arms as he can reach, his cock still twitching within Clint as he shudders through his own orgasm.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, nosing into the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Clint's neck. "My perfect omega, so good for me, so gorgeous. You were so gorgeous, crying out your pleasure. I can't want to see it again, I want to see your face next time, want to see your incredible eyes when you come. God, Clint, that was better than everything I've ever dreamed about."

Clint stiffens in his arms -- as much as he can when it feels like his muscles have been replaced with wet noodles. "You've dreamt about us?" he murmurs.

Phil tangles his fingers with Clint's, lifting their joined hands to press a soft kiss to Clint's knuckles. "I've wanted this -- wanted you -- since you were a mouthy, undisciplined probie that broke an asshole alpha's nose for touching you the wrong way, even though you thought you'd be kicked loose of SHIELD for it. You are _incredible_ , Clint Barton, and if I'd ever thought I might have even a _chance_ of making you mine, I'd have done everything I could to make it happen."

Clint squirms uncomfortably at the praise, stilling with a gasp when the movement tugs at Phil's knot within him. 

Phil kisses his cheek, nosing at his flushed skin. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Clint shrugs. "I didn't think you'd be interested. I'm broken -- "

"Don't ever say that again," Phil says sharply, and the dominance in his tone makes Clint tremble and Phil obviously feels it, because he runs his hands up and down Clint's arms before wrapping his arms around Clint. His voice is gentle but firm when he says, "You are _not_ broken, and even if you'd never had this heat, and even if you _never_ have another one, you are whole, and healthy, and worthy of love, and respect, and every good thing in life."

There is such fierceness in Phil's voice, and yet it's so fond, and full of affection, and Clint can't quite process that those feelings are all for him.

"I've never triggered a heat before," Phil tells him softly, and Clint jerks in surprise. "I've helped a few omegas through theirs when there was no other option, but no one… no one's ever connected with me this strongly before. For years now, I've just assumed it was never going to be in the cards for me, that it was something… beyond me. Something I was incapable of."

"There's nothing wrong with you!" Clint says angrily. He tries to twist in Phil's arms to look him in the eye, and they both groan at the tugging sensation against over-sensitive flesh.

Phil presses a kiss to the tip of Clint's nose, and then to his lips, soft, and gentle and chaste and in complete contrast to their sweaty tangled limbs and the way Phil's body is still locked deep inside Clint's.

"If I'm not broken, you're not either," he says softly. "We were just waiting for each other, waiting for this moment, that's all."

"We've lost so much time," Clint says mournfully. "So much time we could've spent together."

"No," Phil says firmly. "Think of all the time we have now, the future we'll make together. I know it's pretty quick to ask after one heat, especially when that heat isn't even over yet, but I don't want to waste any more of that time. Will you be my omega, Clint? Let me care for you and keep you and show you how good it can be?"

Phil's eyes are silvery-blue, full of joy and sleepy with satisfaction, and Clint can't look away.

"I already am," he says, snuggling into Phil's arms and savoring the way Phil holds him close, like something unexpected and precious. "I think I always was."

**END**


End file.
